And we were both crying in the middle of the hallway — two people who had finally admitted how scared they had been all this time.
“You thought I didn’t care,” he whispered.
“I know,” I said with pain. “And I was wrong.”
That night we sat at the kitchen table for hours and talked honestly for the first time since my husband died.
Not pretending to be strong.
Without hiding behind composure.
We just grieve together, openly.
I told Leo how lost I felt without his father.
He admitted that he sometimes stayed awake at night afraid that I might disappear too.
We were crying.
We laughed at old memories.
We finally stopped trying to survive separately in the same house.
And slowly, things changed.
Not magically.
